The Other Half
by Noavital
Summary: Two one-shots, in each John or Sherlock are summoned to a crime scene, to find out their other half is the victim.
1. Chapter 1

John watson was there in body, yet hardly in mind.

In his mind, he wasn't under that bloody bridge at the border of London. In his mind he went everywhere he had been to with Sherlock Holmes, every danger, every peaceful moment, every shout, every laugh. Everywhere Sherlock was, with the determined spark in his eyes, the genius flashes which crossed them all so often, the tender shade of red that spread on his cheeks after chading some bloody criminal, the cleverness trail he had left behind him wherever he went. No, he most definitely was not where that motionless, greyish-pale body he was bending next to was. What was left of his friend. No longer Sherlock, only a shell. Everything that made Sherlock himself was long gone by then. The numbness he felt was all too odd for John; he stared at the body blankly, whilst his mind was filled with memories.

"Dr. Watson."

Lestrade's worried voice drew him back to reality. He didn't want to stay there, not phsysically nor mentally, yet there he was. Because he had no other place to be now. He sealed of his heart - a skill he had picked on his military service - and started talking flatly.

"Dead, approximately 2 hours. Bled to death from a torn artery, from a wound done by a kni - "

"_John_." Lestrade repeated, calling him by his first name this time. John stopped talking and bit his down lip. The lump in his throat appeared at once. It wasn't until then he noticed that Sherlock was the only one to call him by his name for quite a while.

He reached his hand and smoothed Sherlock's dark curls away from his face. His face seemed so peaceful. What a terrible sight. John lowered his head. He was kneeling at the puddle of blood which pooled around Sherlock, the blood soaking into his pants gave him the shivers. He told him not to come with him. He told him to stay in the flat. He practically saved John. Despite John's objection, Sherlock didn't allow him to come. He knew it would be dangerous. If only John had got there sooner... He saved him, and paid with his own life. John could recall his last words to him: "I figured it out, John, all of it! Don't wait up." The enthusiasm in his voice, the same which took over it whenever he made another brilliant deduction - it echoed through John's mind so sharply he could almost hear Sherlock's deep baritone voice. It trickled into every corner of his consciousness, so did the realization he'll never be hearing it again.

He couldn't take it. The numbness filling him was gone immediately, and was replaced with paralyzing grief. Sherlock gave John something new to live for, after he thought he had lost everything; _He was that new thing_.

Now, once again, he has nothing to live for. John Watson's other half has left him.

When the tears broke out, he threw himself onto Sherlock's still, limp body for one last and only, one way hug.

He was contaminating a crime scene in the most blatant way of all.

No one had the heart to pull him away.

_[I have NO idea why I just wrote that thing. I'm such a bad person. Going to throw myself out of the window now.]_


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock Holmes was never a man of faith. He never believed in God, nor fate, Santa Claus, the tooth fairy, or anything he could not see with his own observant eyes. And he most definitely did not believe in miracles. It was rather pointless and delusional to anticipate something so divorced from reality.

And Sherlock Holmes was a lot of things, but divorced from reality was not one of them. So when he saw John Watson lying on the cellar floor, his eyes wide open, his somewhat bluish skin shade and his bruised neck – the last thing he hoped for was a miracle – that John might still be alive. He was there for five hours, Sherlock knew. Five hours, in which he definitely was tortured, judging by the content of the room. Tortured to protect Sherlock. Defending him, eventually with his life. If only Sherlock would've solved it sooner, quicker – it wouldn't have happened. John wouldn't have to die for him. Sherlock knew he didn't deserve that kind of loyalty, yet he had earned it anyway; John was loyal to him until the very end. He must have done something right.

"Sherlock –"

"The victim died proximately at 5 PM. Strangled by the gloved hands of his kidnapper, obviously a white man at his mid 30's –"

"For god's sake, Sherlock!" The sudden shout cut Sherlock off. He looked up at Lestrade from where he was kneeling next to John. He was surprised. Something about the way Lestrade cut him off was like a slap to the face, interrupting Sherlock's convenient regular pattern of behaviour. "How can you be so indifferent?"

Sherlock stared at him blankly. "By reminding myself that he is a victim now and he must be treated like any other."

"Somehow, Sherlock, I know you can tell the difference this time."

Sherlock didn't like what Lestrade was doing. He was forcing him to observe – not only the crime scene but his entire friendship with John, further and further back and let it all sink in. To tear down all of the emotional blocks he had built up along the years. To hold his friendship with John up to the light and truly look at what he meant for him. And Sherlock did not like what he saw, yet he could never unsee it.

He placed his finger on John's bruised neck. The bruises suddenly hurt his eyes, as if there were blinding light – something you wish to look away from, whatever it takes. But he didn't. He forced himself to look because the pain grounded him to John. Because he wanted to place every single detail of John's face in his hard drive forever – every freckle, every wrinkle, and his good eyes. He couldn't treat him like any other victim – because John deserved better. He treated Sherlock like no one else ever did: when everybody else called him a freak, John truly saw him for who he was – and thought he was magnificent.

Who's going to look at him like that now?

He will go after them. He will find them, the people who took his other half away from him. And he will make sure they get what they deserve.

When Lestrade opened his mouth to say something more, the man kneeling in front of him, his back turned to him, hit the ground with his fist in what couldn't be anything other than a mixture of frustration and deep grief. Lestrade knew there was no need to say anything else.

There was nothing Sherlock wanted more than a miracle.


End file.
